It didn’t make the front page, but the New York Times headline on page four reads “Bomber Attacks Bus of Afghan Soldiers; 30 Dead.” Just yesterday, a suicide bomber who was dressed in an Afghan military uniform detonated a set of body-strapped explosives on the street next to the bus. Headed for a day of work in Kabul, the 27 soldiers were killed before they could report for duty. Two civilians died in the attack too; officials say this is one of the deadliest bombings in Afghanistan this year. Considering there have been just over 100 suicide bombings this year, with a reported death toll of 290 people, I wonder if it makes a difference that this was among the deadliest. When violence becomes so constant, can those living in it differentiate the magnitude of particular incidents? And what do the two Afghan police officials – who “wandered the street picking up body parts and dropping them into a plastic bag” – have to say about what is happening to their home?
President Hamid Karzai, who visited the United Nations and the White House and the Today Show last week, says now that he is eager to meet with Taliban leaders. He told Meredith Vieira that he is willing to offer members of the Taliban leading positions in the government if they will agree to stop the violence. He told Tim Russert that the $300 billion the United States has spent on the war in Iraq would have been better spent in Afghanistan, and that the United States has fallen far short of supplying necessary and appropriate aid to help Afghanistan rebuild. And he is promoting an amnesty program that is intended to bring non-violent Taliban members back (many of whom have sought refuge in Pakistan) to turn the tide in Afghanistan.
And speaking of tides, an international attempt to rebuild one of Afghanistan’s most crucial mechanisms for industry brings the Royal Anglican Regiment back to the country. I say “most crucial” because the hydroelectric dam in Kajaki has the potential of supplying a great deal of much needed energy to the country; I say “back” because Afghanistan only declared independence from England in 1919, when the Royal Anglicans were there in a different capacity to say the least. The situation in Kajaki today is grim beyond belief. Nearly everyone has left the area, displaced by American/NATO/Taliban violence and poppy-facilitated drug trade routes. There is apparently a small set of folks, including British soldiers and Afghan police officers, who have lived there for over a year, guarding the aged dam and waiting for renovation to begin. They say the Afghan police have not had contact with their family this entire time, and have only just recently been paid for their service. I would imagine the British soldiers have at least these minimal tokens of appreciation, though I dare say they would rather be home as well. When the Taliban attacked the damn last year, foreign promises of dam repairs, school construction, and clinic development fell silent. And as the 40 or so power station workers commute to work each day, through the Taliban-controlled zones that surround it, they continue to maintain this precious resource during their grueling 24-hour shifts. Engineers, who have been on deck since foreign promises to rebuild commenced, have begun to lose hope as the disillusionment of broken promises magnifies daily.
But speaking of engineers, there is hope brewing in places far from the suicide bombings in Kabul and the violence-ridden dam zone in Kajaki. There are thousands of refugees who have been scattered around the world, but who still feel connected to their home and committed to its future. One such example is a young woman named Mujahida[1], a tenth-grade student at Lewiston High School (LHS) and a participant in Refugee Community Centers’ (RCC) Saturday School program. She has been in the U.S. for just over two years and has learned an incredible amount in that short time. Committed to their education, she and her siblings study their lessons intensely, and supplement their LHS education with after school tutoring at the International Aid Foundation (IAF) and Saturday School at RCC. When they leave RCC at noon on Saturday, they ride MARTA down Memorial to the World Community School (WCS) for an adult English as a Second Language (ESL) class. Mujahida rattles off the acronyms effortlessly: her determined quest for knowledge is clear.
Yesterday, three college undergrads came to Saturday School to facilitate a workshop on Internet safety for the high school participants. “Okay, like, we obviously don’t know you yet and, like, you don’t know us so let’s start off by going around the room and saying our names and, like, our goals or whatever,” began the impeccably-dressed sorority girl who spoke with what seemed like a naïve confidence in front of a set of refugee teens who have seen the world. And so we began. “My name is Sarah, and I want to go to law school,” began the college students… “my name is Emily, and I want to go to law school too, actually,” another chimed in … “my name is Amina, and I want to be a teacher,” said one of the refugee students… “my name is Jillian, and I want to be a college professor,” I offered. Around the circle we went, with most of the high school girls saying they wanted to be teachers, and a few of them adding the goal of graduating from high school and attending college. With three people left to introduce themselves, Mujahida whispered, “my name is Mujahida, and I plan to be an engineer,” before she shyly dropped her head and scribbled something else into her notebook.
I had an opportunity to work with Mujahida yesterday, after the Internet safety workshop and during the homework help hour. Her Computer Applications teacher at LHS assigned a group project for the students to design a community business. She is carrying the weight of the three other people in her group, because they don’t speak English and seem lost in class. Like each of her assignments, she approached this one with rigor, and is in the process of creating a hypothetical shoe company that will give a federally-subsidized discount to students and retirees, such that people in these groups can buy shoes at half price. “I want for my company to serve the community,” she explained to me “and students and elderly people have a hard time making money.” For forty-five minutes, she remained entirely focused on “task 5” of a 10 task project, which was to write a letter to the federal government to ask for funding.
I have not talked with Mujahida as much as I have with some of the other students about life outside of school assignments; she remains so focused on her school work that it’s clear she is not in the business of small talk. This is the drive and determination and intelligence needed to become an engineer. And hers is the dream and passion and commitment needed to rebuild her home.
[1] Mujahida is a pseudonym; it is also and Afghani name that means “one who works hard.”
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